


Skylines and Shorelines

by openmouthwideeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Some things you don't need until they leave you, and they're things that you miss.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For the Jaime/Brienne Shuffled Challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skylines and Shorelines

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to all the talented authors who have shared with the J/B fandom. I've been holding off reading the Shuffled stories 'til I got back in town, and I can't wait to dive into all these new shades of Jaime and Brienne. Readers, writers, commenters, or all three, I am so appreciative of you all!
> 
> This fic was inspired by [Bright Lights](http://www.metrolyrics.com/bright-lights-lyrics-matchbox-20.html) by [Matchbox 20](http://grooveshark.com/#!/s/Bright+Lights/4zTVzU?src=5).

Brienne rinsed her suit in the tiny sink of the locker room, relishing the cool droplets that sprayed across her wrists and clung to the blonde stubble on her arms. Six hours of swimming laps and thirty minutes of stalling in the shower, and her skin still soaked up the hydration like she’d spent years wandering the desert. After a lifetime of beaches and balmy air, the silt and smog of the city clung to her like sludge. Months of training and posing and press had made Brienne feel no less alien to the east coast.

She was lucky to have gotten sponsorships. She only had one gold medal to her name, one Olympics on her résumé. Swimmers with sylphlike features and twice her experience were still slinging coffees part time to pay for their training. Tyrion might have agreed to represent her out of some misconstrued sense of camaraderie, but he had gotten her Rainbow River in Cali and Stark Enterprises in NYC. ‘Better than a Beast’ had taken off in a way no one had expected, and Brienne was grateful that the uncomfortable shoots and painstaking interviews afforded her the opportunity to focus on her training. She only ever felt comfortable slicing through the water, the familiar burn in her lungs a poor substitute for the balmy golden glow and tumultuous green seas she never expected to miss.

She dropped the wet suit into her bag and zipped it tight, already calculating how musty it would get during her commute. Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her windbreaker, and Brienne dug it out as she swiped her badge to release the gym door. A trickle of foot traffic brushed past her, pressing her against the building as she read Tyrion’s message.

_Headquarters. ASAP._

She winced, stuffing her phone into her jacket and ducking into the subway. Last week Tyrion had ordered her to her apartment just in time to catch her Trout swimwear ad debut on the Nym network. The time before that he’d arranged an ambush interview with the Spider. It made it all the more grating that he’d done it remotely from the Olympic training center in SoCal. She missed that pool like she’d missed Tarth in high school.

The dingy brown-gray of the subway sandpapered her skin as she sank underground, making Brienne feel half the monster the media made her. The fetid air suffocated the chlorine that clung to her lips. Passing trains ruffled musty, synthetic breezes through her wet hair as she swiped her metro card and waded across the crowded platform to track 3.

She took deep, measured breaths in the salty staleness of the car, preparing herself as her train rattled past familiar pits and alleys and offices. _Stark Enterprises embodies the principles of sportsmanship I strive for in my life and my competitions,_ she recited in her head, dimly grateful that her publicist endorsed her ideals. _I admire their COO for her leadership and competency–_

The sun was setting over her apartment building as she climbed seven flights of stairs to the tune of countless televisions. An imaged swam through her thoughts, as insistent and unshakable as the sea: some girl who might have been her in a murky blue suit, outstripping kraken and mermaids and creatures of the deep. _Brienne Tarth, better than a beast._ Five pool-blue rings pulsed behind her eyes, taunting and cheering.

But her hall was vacant, bare of the abandoned notes and empty lattes that advertised media presence. She clutched the zipper of her bag until it gnawed grooves in her palm, pushing through her front door like she had pushed through those final laps: heart pounding and air trapped in her lungs.

She didn’t need her key.

The apartment looked as bare as ever. Between the kitchenette and the futon there was nowhere to hide, and journalists and athletes alike seemed wary of exploring further, as if her sparse furniture and minimal possessions made her somehow inhuman.

_Little better than a beast_ , she thought grimly, studying the room for signs of a disturbance. She almost hoped her agent _had_ sent a reporter who had gotten bored and left. Unlocked doors might mean thieves or stalkers lurking in the bathroom. Her few fervent fans tended to demonize her as well as deify her.

But it was just as likely that Tyrion had sent an interior decorator to overhaul her living space for some photo spread, and the designer was recuperating in a fabric shop off Broadway.

Fishing out her swimsuit, Brienne moved to the sink, glancing warily over her shoulder. Her sports bag was too light to make a decent weapon, but the chances of the police arriving before someone could assail her were slim. Her eyes shifted to the dated glass cabinets, watching the hazy reflection for signs of movement. Her hand drifted towards the faucet on instinct.

Lazy steam licked up her wrist. The sink was already full.

A door creaked behind her, and Brienne jumped. The suit tumbled from her fingers, splashing into the suds as she turned to face the intruder. The sight of him was a slap of saltwater, fresh and familiar and stinging on her cheeks. Tawny sand and golden sun and polluted green waves rushed over her, spinning her about and yanking her under.

Jaime was in her bedroom. Jaime was in New York.

She dove aside on instinct, evading the emotional riptide. “Have you heard from Tyrion?”

Jaime halted, glancing up from a square of paper in his hand. This was his ambush, but he looked as if he’d beached on unseen shoals.

He raised a brow, temple twitching as his face smoothed. There was salt in the dunes of his hair now, but his face was as handsome as ever. “Not as recently as you.” His eyes found her hip as if he could read the text through her pocket.

Brienne crossed her arms, trying not to look uncomfortable. Her heart pounded with the terrifying thrill of diving into the sea after a storm, knowing the current would catch her and try to tug her into open water.

She turned abruptly to her blender, snatching up the protein powder and dumping in a heap. She tore fruit apart with her fingers, tossing it in and listening to each solitary _plunk_.

Jaime chuckled, rough and shallow. The sound scrabbled at the sand beneath her calm and swept it out to sea. “Diligent as ever.” His voice washed closer, and Brienne flicked on the blender to shatter the siren’s call.

She didn’t need another reason to dislike New York.

Jaime’s chest brushed warm against her back, and her finger started on the switch. Silent amusement rumbled through his chest as the blades halted. His mirth reverberated through her sternum and stuttered her heart, but for once he kept it to himself. She frowned at his muddied reflection and reached for the cabinet.

He dropped a photo almost carelessly on the counter. Brienne froze, and he reached over her shoulder for the door.

“Looks like you missed me.” His good hand closed around hers to swing the cabinet open. He dropped it to retrieve a glass, but Brienne’s hand lingered on the knob, eyes caught on the colorful square.

The picture looked strange against the chipped Formica. She could see gray through a hole gouged in one corner; evidence of a pushpin removed and replaced more times than she could count. 

Had he found it on her nightstand, or hanging on her corkboard with the pictures of her dad and team USA? She couldn’t remember.

Brienne thought of the morning after the summer games, how her victory had sunk heavy in her stomach when the Hunt Report dubbed her ‘leviathan Tarth.’ Her strokes had grown erratic and ineffectual, and Jaime had hauled her from the pool and taught her to punch like a champion boxer. He’d called her emotional and she’d called him a coward, and Jaime had knocked her flat with the left hook that had won him one final bronze. She’d pushed him in the pool for that, and he’d pulled her in with him, and they’d wrestled until her anger and doubt had dissipated beneath the waves.

With too-steady fingers Brienne poured her energy shake, careful not to drip onto the snapshot of Jaime grinning on the qualifier sidelines. He wasn’t her coach, wasn’t her teammate, wasn’t even a swimmer, but he had stayed with her through every round, needling and teasing and making a show of scouting fresh talent for his brother.

Chunks of half-pureed oranges floated to the surface. Her stomach was churning, but Brienne dutifully chugged the smoothie, coughing into her cup as a lump caught in her throat. Jaime thumped her squarely on the back, and she tipped the glass higher until she’d drained her drink.

“What do you want, Jaime?” she finally demanded, throat thick with misspent energy. “Did Tyrion send you, or are you just here to make fun of me?”

“Tyrion thinks I’m an idiot,” he admitted.

She twisted to look at him. His breath hit her chin, and she leaned backwards over the sink, wishing he was a less physical person. The heat of him felt different with long months of lonely thoughts for company.

Jaime met her eyes. She prayed that her transparent blue would disappear beneath a cover of clouds.

The muscle beside his mouth ticked, caught between a soft smile and a sarcastic grin. He shrugged. “Apparently I’m thoughtless for coming and foolish if I stayed and oblivious for letting you leave in the first place.”

Brienne’s heart hitched, lodged like a sunken plastic bucket while the current swirled sand and sea around her. Her fancies tried to manipulate his words, but her head heard them plainly. “Tyrion sent me to New York. Stark’s a better sponsor than Rainbow River.”

His smile flashed, a camera classic, all white teeth. “I’m sure you fit right in with the stodgy Starks.”

She shot him an unimpressed look. It was hard not to press the issue, even if he _was_ baiting her. “Has Tyrion found me another sponsor?”

“No,” he shrugged, stepping away. The air between them was a splash of cold water, welcome and unforgiving. “Stay if you want.”

_I don’t._

Brienne pushed away from the counter, following Jaime as he crossed to the room’s single window.

“I’d stay just for the view,” he quipped, turning a mocking grin on her. “Shit and sewers have nothing on seaside sunsets.”

Her jaw jutted out, shoulders compacting defensively as she crossed her arms. “You can’t do that.”

“Compliment your accommodations?” he asked, raising a brow. “The Starks have gone all out.”

“I have to have sponsors to swim, Jaime.” He knew that. Brienne had filled more than one pool with saltwater while her dad had sold one possession after another to pay for her training. “Or should I go back to guarding empty buildings?”

“I could make a donation.”

Her mouth twisted to retort. Her frustration faltered before she could speak. The sincerity Jaime kept carefully caged crept silently into his gaze. Her teeth worried the inside of her lip. She scoured for some explanation, but reason slipped through her hands, clinging to the pads of her fingers in tiny, silt-laced beads.

“I– Jaime– ” She shook her head, gutting herself on his hope. He dropped fluidly onto the hard futon and stared up at her, poised to argue. “I couldn’t accept that.”

“You’d accept from the Starks.”

“That’s different. It’s a– mutually beneficial business arrangement.” Her fingers tightened on her ribcage. “You’re my friend.”

Jaime’s mouth moved silently, repeating her words in some new context she couldn’t see. His foot tapped the way it did when muscle memory wanted to channel his energy into a fight.

His eyes danced up, catching hers between green and gold. “Tyrion thinks I’m determined to ruin everyone’s hard work.” His cheek curved wryly. “I never went for the gold when it was convenient.”

Brienne braced herself for the jibe, a verbal buffet to diffuse the faintly crackling atmosphere.

Jaime pushed to his feet. When he slipped his palm into hers, she felt like she had slipped off the diving block and splashed into a heated pool. He hesitated, glancing down at their twined fingers before wrapping his crooked right hand around the back of hers, encasing her in the best and the worst of him.

“Jaime,” she warned, but whether fear or denial clogged her throat, he gave her no time to founder.

“I miss you,” he murmured.

Her heart clenched like it did when she brushed life hidden beneath the waves, an unexpected affirmation that she wasn’t alone. She breathed deep, shoved aside the frothing surf to how she’d felt before, a clear pool free of the rippling thought of _more_. “I miss you, too, Jaime. I– ”

He shook his head, and Brienne let her words wash away. “I _miss_ you.” He curled his fingers tighter into hers, reached up with his right hand to brush her cheek. His knuckles were gnarled and knotted like a poorly patched mooring line, skipping along her freckles and sinking into her skin, as warm and welcome as every other part of him.

Jaime smelled like salt and sand and sunshine, even here in the smog clogged air. She wondered if he smelled chlorine lingering in her pores.

“You already know I miss you,” she whispered, curving into his hand the way her thumb had curled the edges of her photograph, pressing inexorably nearer to his captured grin.

That grin rippled into reality before her eyes. A smile lit her lips in return, brighter than the day she had qualified. She hadn’t known what she was feeling then, wrapped up in euphoria and chaos, but now her dehydrated heart tumbled forward to drown in his smile.

The crash of her lips was clumsy, wet, but Jaime caught her like he’d been waiting, sweeping her into his arms as waves roared around them. Their hands tugged upward, snarled at the joints, to drift, abandoned, at their waists. His mouth moved insistently, unrelenting, smoothing her strokes until Brienne coasted over his lips then coaxing her deeper beneath the undulating sea. Her hand skimmed his hip, his back, his shoulder, wrapping around muscles that curved where hers lay flat and hard. She sunk into depths warmer and rougher and more buoyant than she’d dreamed, pressing down and down until her toes burrowed in the briny sand. Jaime’s fingers worked through her hair, dry chlorine and city grime cracking under the warm sunshine of his skin.

Brienne surfaced with a gasp. She locked her lashes more tightly, embracing the familiar drag of her lungs finding a rhythm in so much air. Her mind churned, heart slogging through a flood of _wishing_ and _wanted_ to the tune of Jaime’s ragged breaths.

_He shouldn’t be more breathless than me_ , she thought distantly, forcing her eyes open to meet a surge of green. Jaime grinned, a little crooked, and caught her lips with his next breath, freeing them with the air rushing from his lungs.

“I could move to New York,” he offered. He untangled their fingers to scrape along the fabric bunched beneath her waist. His thumb curled under the elastic band of her jacket, but his palm settled solidly on her hip, caressing soft cotton as his panting ebbed. “Tyrion always complains that I spend more time goading you than scouting new athletes.”

Brienne’s eyes washed across her barren Manhattan apartment. She imagined Jaime folded on the floor, fiddling with the TV he’d bought her on a whim, his California smile casting a warm glow on the colorless sleet pinging against their window.

“No,” she shook her head. She’d felt so stifled here for so long.

Jaime’s fingers clenched and slacked, dragging across her hip as he tugged away. She shook her head again, fingers curling under his arm and back over his shoulder, anchoring him to her. “No,” she murmured again. Phantom waves lapped at her feet, gentle and sun-kissed. Her breath was coming easier than it had since her plane had lifted off from LAX.

She wondered if Stark Enterprises would print ads out of LA, or if Brienne would be forced cross-country for each new shoot. Wondered if Tyrion could convince Rainbow River to increase their funding, or if Margaery could smile her up a few more supporters.

It didn’t matter.

She closed her eyes. Five familiar rings burned green and gold behind her lids.

“I’m coming home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse the excessive use of pool/ocean imagery. Also, sappiness. I couldn't help myself.
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated!


End file.
